


Dying: Do Not Recommend

by December_Daughter



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Humor, crack!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December_Daughter/pseuds/December_Daughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dying is pretty high on Tommy Merlyn's List of Shit That Sucks, but he's determined that some good will come of it. He may not have hands or even a real body, but he'll be damned if he doesn't find some way to shove Oliver and Felicity together and yell "Now, kiss!" until they give in. Cupid ain't got nothing on his matchmaking skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dying: Do Not Recommend

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what happened here. This is my first attempt at crack!fic; it's meant to be funny and a little fluffy. Just something that I hope will make you smile. Feel free to leave a comment and let me know if it worked.

Being dead is _so_ not Tommy Merlyn’s cup of tea. Not that he drinks tea … or anything else lately, for that matter. Hell, he’d be grateful for a cup of tea if it meant he could taste again. Because, damn, did Tommy miss food; huge, juicy burgers and hot out of the fryer French fries, his mother’s pumpkin pie …

It totally doesn’t help that Oliver is currently digging into a big plate of Pad-Thai. Tommy can’t smell the food – he can’t really even remember what it tastes like anymore – and that’s just another reason why being dead is a total bitch.

Time has no meaning when you’re dead, but he’s willing to guess that it’d taken him something like two months to realize that he was not only dead, he was also (as fucking ridiculous as it sounds) lost. Tommy wasn’t a religious person when he was alive, but he’s fairly certain this isn’t how Heaven was described.

For one thing, he’s apparently completely alone. That had been a huge disappointment for someone who only had the thought of being greeted by his mother at the gates of Heaven to look forward to when he took his last breath. But nope, apparently that wasn’t happening. When he’d finally figured that out – and realized that he was a non-corporeal _something_ floating alone in the ether – he’d been so pissed he’d cursed profusely. At least, he’d meant to; he assumes that since he doesn’t have a body, that also means he doesn’t have a voice.

Which, by the way, seriously sucks.

About the only thing that Tommy has found to be remotely cool about being dead is the ability to Apparate. That’s a thing, right? He’d heard the word somewhere while he was still alive and knew it meant to disappear and reappear somewhere else immediately. That seemed pretty accurate for what he could do now.

Dude, it’s totally Apparate; he probably read it in a book.

Getting the hang of his new ability had taken a little time, though. The first time he’d done it, it had just occurred to him to wonder how Oliver was doing. He had no idea where he’d been prior to that – it was probably pretty depressing because, _hello, totally dead_ – but he had suddenly found himself in the shell of a crashed C-130 aircraft, Oliver furiously doing push ups in front of him. He’d tried to call out to his best friend, an attempt that had failed miserably, which is how he’d discovered that he couldn’t communicate with the living.

He probably should have expected that, though. And fuck all if he’s gonna pull some Ghost bullshit and take over someone else’s body.

Can he even do that?

 _Sidetracked, Merlyn_. Anyway, Tommy had been upset (and maybe a little moved, which he’d never admit) to discover just how brutal his death had been to his best friend. He’d known Oliver too well in life not to know that the other man would blame himself for Tommy’s death; if he were still alive, Tommy wouldn’t hesitate to tell him he was being a self-absorbed ass and then insist they do a shot.

Or several, because that was how he and Oliver rolled. Well, pre-island Oliver anyway.

Tommy had stayed with Oliver for a few days, learning all he could about the island that Oliver had been marooned on for so many years, before leaving to check in on Laurel. She was just as beautiful then as she’d always been; he still visits her from time to time, and it hurts his heart – or whatever the hell he has for one now – to see the way she’s falling apart. He’d been upset (a total understatement, by the way) when he’d seen her in Oliver’s arms, but he’d eventually accepted the fact that he had pushed them together. He’d allowed his insecurities to get in the way, and the woman he loved had ended up in the arms of his best friend, who also happened to be her once presumed dead ex-boyfriend. Who’d taken her sister on his yacht; which had resulted in said sister’s death.

Holy _shit_ , complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it. Especially since Tommy now knows that Sara isn’t really dead (which Laurel doesn’t know) and that she’s apparently the black leather version of Oliver’s vigilante.

Just what the hell did that island do to them?

There he goes again, getting sidetracked. The point is, he’d been dismayed and saddened to find Laurel burying herself in the bottom of a pill bottle; he checked in on her often now, wishing that he had a body so that he could offer her the comfort she so needs and refuses to accept. He knows that Oliver has tried to reach out to her and that she won’t let him in; it’s the same with her father. But Tommy can’t do anything, except watch forlornly and hope that he won’t soon find her floating next to him in this … whatever the hell this is.

If he ever does make his way to those stupid pearly gates, he’s gonna demand someone tell him where the hell he ended up and why, because seriously … not cool. He’s pretty sure no one ever mentioned that you could get lost on your way to Heaven; now that he knows it’s possible, he’s gonna start a petition for, like, those huge lights that flash along the runways at airports. And maybe a huge ass sign: HEAVEN, THIS WAY, would probably do the trick.

So back to Oliver and his huge ass plate of Pad-Thai that probably tastes fucking _delicious_ , the lucky bastard. His best friend – is it weird that he still considers Oliver his best friend even though he’s dead? – is seated next to Felicity at a table that’s full of computer monitors. What a fucking surprise that had been, being all dead and Apparating in to check on Oliver only to discover that he’d formed a whole Vigilante team. Tommy had recognized the man named Diggle, having seen him driving Oliver around once or twice, but Felicity he hadn’t expected. For one thing, she’s totally rocking that genius thing – that girl knows her shit. And it doesn’t hurt that she’s hot; like, really hot. Tommy knows that Oliver has noticed, because he could always read his friend’s tells when he was alive, and being a ghost totally gives him an advantage – for one thing, that aura shit he’d heard about is totally real. He’d dated a girl back in high school who’d been obsessed with “reading auras” and thought it was totally crap at the time; that relationship hadn’t lasted long. But now that he’s officially kicked the bucket, he knows that “crap” is actually true – people really do have auras, and he can see them.

Which is why he knows, as he hovers in front of the trio, that the attraction Felicity feels isn’t one-sided. Oliver may be a coy little shit, but he’s not unaffected; he’s only recently realized that he feels something more for the blonde next to him, but the point is that he _does_ know.

Yet another shitty thing about being dead: if he had arms, Tommy would just grab them by the backs of their heads and smoosh their faces together until they got tired of him yelling “Now, kiss!” at them and did as he asked. At which point he’d quickly get the hell out of dodge because, _eew_ , he didn’t need to see that – alive or dead.

The thing is, Tommy really likes Felicity. He wishes that they could have gotten to know each other in life, maybe formed some sort of friendship. Her socially awkward way of blurting things out in the worst way possible entertains him; he doesn’t have a mouth, but it makes him smile anyway. This new, post-island Oliver is more serious than the Oliver he grew up with, but he knows that his friend finds Felicity’s slip-ups funny as well – he just doesn’t understand why Oliver insists on pretending otherwise. Cracking a smile – a real, honest to goodness smile – every once in awhile isn’t going to break his face. In fact, what Tommy really wants is to hear Oliver laugh at one of Felicity’s more comical blunders.

Tommy has spent a lot of time hanging around his loved ones, even though they can’t see him. He knows their regrets, their sadness, and wishes he could reassure them: he loves them; he’s not angry with them; he wants them to be okay, to be happy. He’s not sure how to help Laurel, but he’s certain that Oliver has exactly what he needs.

What Oliver needs is the petite blonde sitting next to him with her own plate of Pad-Thai. And, sure, maybe he doesn’t _love_ the idea of tracking down Whoopi Goldberg so that he can temporarily take over her body, but he’d do it if it meant he could slap the shit out of his best friend (and maybe some sense into him).

Diggle stands and tosses his paper plate of food, excusing himself for the evening and leaving Oliver and Felicity alone in the basement of Verdant.

Oh, why doesn’t he have hands! He really needs to rub them together as he plots some kind of intervention, because that’s how the best villains do it in the movies. Granted, he’s not really a villain, but the point stands.

Tommy is only so gung-ho about getting the two idiots together now, after having witnessed the events of Oliver’s rescuing of her from the Count. Being dead offered him a certain clarity that he hadn’t had when alive; he appreciated Oliver’s vow not to kill, in honor of his memory, and was glad that he had found a better way to do his work as the vigilante. Tommy hadn’t been disappointed when Oliver had killed the Count; he’d been saddened by the burden added to his already heavy heart, but he’d understood. In that situation, Oliver really hadn’t had a choice, and Tommy can appreciate that. He knows that Oliver had only killed that man because he’d believed that it was necessary.

And that’s when Tommy, the formless blob of whatever the hell he was, had been struck by lightning. Well … whatever. He has watched Oliver for many months, and in those months he’d never responded so … viscerally as he did in those moments. That was when Tommy had really known that things were over between Oliver and Laurel; that was when he’d realized that Oliver didn’t need anyone the way he needs Felicity.

That was when Tommy had decided that he was going to find a way to get them together, body or not. These assholes would probably take their sweet ass time with it, and that was just unacceptable.

Which is why he’d spent the last few months trying his hand – luck at moving things. He’d watched plenty of those hokey ghost shows and shit when he was alive, about dead people moving shit and writing messages in dirt or whatever. He’s not a genius, but he can totally swing a few letters scribbled into the dirt; he’s been working on it. But where the hell is he going to do it?

Tommy crosses his arms, then gets irritated when he realizes he doesn’t have arms because, _oh yeah_ , has he mentioned lately that being dead is a total bitch? Maybe he should just find a way to scribble the words DYING: DO NOT RECOMMEND on a steamy bathroom mirror as a warning, because this is so not what it’s cracked up to be.

But more of that later. Right now, he needs to figure out how to get these two stubborn asses together. Maybe he can show Cupid a few things when he gets to Heaven; wouldn’t that just be hysterical, Tommy Merlyn’s face plastered all over Valentine’s cards and cheap boxes of candy.

“You look tired,” Oliver says quietly.

“So take her home!” Tommy yells. No one hears him.

“I’ve been running this code for the last thirty six hours,” Felicity answers, rubbing her forehead. “And I don’t have anything to show for it.”

“Hey, you’re doing you’re best. I know that.”

“I know that you wanna kiss her!” Tommy answers. “So just do it already and put a dead guy out of his misery.”

Nothing happens. Exasperated, he wills himself to appear above Oliver’s mostly eaten plate of food; there are enough noodles for what he has in mind. If he had a tongue, it’d be sticking out of his mouth as he concentrates on pushing the noodles around. He very carefully spells out a message to his best friend: OLIVER KISS FELICITY.

Now how the hell does he get him to look down?

Felicity ends up doing it for him. She glances down on a whim, just a quick flick of her eyes, and then Tommy feels triumphant when her blue eyes widen and fix on Oliver’s plate.

“Uh … Oliver?”

“Hmm?”

“Have your noodles always been like that?”

Tommy watches Oliver glance away from the computer monitors and down at his plate, waiting for the flash of surprise to cross his face; instead, all he sees is confusion.

“Does that look like a word to you?”

“Kinda,” Felicity agrees. “Those first two letters kind of look like an O and an L.”

“Is that … an I?” He asks. Then he spells it out. “O-L-I-C-I-T-Y.”

Wait, what? Tommy surveys his noodle message, more than a little pissed when he realizes that only part of his message got through; instead of commanding Oliver to kiss Felicity, he’s just managed to mash their names together to create a new word.

“Olicity?” Felicity repeats. “That’s not a word. Right? No way it’s a word.”

“Actually, it kind of … well, this is going to sound weird,” Oliver starts, glancing up at his counterpart.

“What?”

“It kind of looks like our names, doesn’t it? The first part of my name, combined with the last part of yours?”

Felicity’s mouth falls open, too shocked to make a reply. She is absolutely certain that Oliver’s Pad-Thai noodles spelling out some odd hybrid of their names is not a natural occurrence, and that they were regular noodles only a few minutes ago.

“Oliver, are you suggesting that your noodles have somehow rearranged themselves on your plate to send us some kind of message? What the hell would the message even be?”

“I have no idea!” he retorts, holding both hands up in surrender. “I was just pointing out the obvious.”

“How is that obvious in any universe outside of The X-Files?”

Well this is not at all how he wanted this situation to play out. Now he’s started some sort of debate – or maybe a war – between the vigilante and his should-be girlfriend. Perfect.

Time for a new approach. Tommy aligns himself behind Felicity’s rolling desk chair, which she’s turned to face Oliver so that she can properly chide him on his lack of pop culture knowledge.

This woman really is all sorts of fantastic; Oliver needs to keep her around for a long time.

Without hands, this is going to be a whole lot harder than he expected; still, Tommy is determined. He focuses all the energy he has – which is basically all of him – on the back of the chair and _wills_ it forward. This has to work; he has to be able to do this one thing for Oliver, and for Felicity as well. Just this one thing.

Felicity is mid-rant when her chair suddenly lurches forward, throwing her into the arms of a very surprised Oliver; his eyes are impossibly blue at this proximity and she can feel her heart hammering in her ribcage as she looks up at him through her lashes.

“I, um … wow, you smell good.” She closes her eyes in embarrassment, because of course she hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She’s practically sitting in his lap, and now she’s gone and made the situation worse by telling him he smells good. This is ridiculous. “I didn’t mean that. I mean … no, I meant it, just not … I didn’t mean to say it out loud, it was supposed to be one of those …”

Oliver hooks a finger under her chin, angling it upwards as his lips descend on hers mid-ramble. He has imagined this one too many times: interrupting one of her unbelievably adorable rants with an abrupt kiss. It’s just as wonderful as he’d imagined, and he resolves to do it at least once a day if she’ll let him.

Tommy is totally doing a bodiless victory dance, which looks remarkably like a drunken rendition of the chicken dance. He doesn’t care.

He didn’t even need to take over a body; take that Patrick Swayze!

By the time he refocuses on the two living people, they're making their way out of the basement with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists and huge smiles.

“I think we should refer to ourselves collectively as ‘Olicity’ from here on out,” Felicity is saying. “Real word or not.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time in middle school when Tommy was obsessed with putting people’s names together, just to see how ridiculous the results could be?”

When he finally gets to Heaven – because he does, when he finally feels like he’s done all he can for the people he loves that are still alive – he tells the story to anyone who will listen.

And many years later, when Oliver and Felicity find themselves non-corporeal in front of the gates of Heaven together (because once they were together, there was no breaking them apart), Tommy is one of the people waiting for them. He greets them like the old friends that they are, throwing imaginary arms around their shoulders and saying as they pass into Eternity, “Let me tell you about the time I made Death my bitch.”


End file.
